


Coming Down to Earth

by ZusupaTanhi



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Eventual Smut, Lemon, M/M, not sure where this is even going
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-11
Updated: 2013-04-10
Packaged: 2017-12-05 00:03:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,867
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/716578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZusupaTanhi/pseuds/ZusupaTanhi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Altair and Desmond get closer and closer...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Touche, my Master

**Author's Note:**

> The great Eagle of Masyaf hates to land, but sometimes he makes an exception...

Altair smirks at the sight of Desmond, who looks up at him despondently from the floor. It’s the fifth such time his young descendant has lost, and Altair decides that he rather enjoys beating people. There’s something innately thrilling about winning and leaving your opponent in the dust. He turns and slips away, vanishing into the shadows of the training equipment. 

While his ancestor does mental victory laps, the cranky bartender hauls himself over to a bench and curls up to sulk. A hand comes down to rest on his shoulder, large and calloused from years of free running. Desmond doesn’t look at Ezio, but he leans into the gesture a little, enjoying the gentle encouragement. One day he’ll be able to beat Altair. Ezio already can, sometimes. It’s just a matter of getting to that point where you trust yourself and move instinctively. Ezio’s told him that many times.

Yawning, Desmond closes his eyes and smiles appreciatively as those warm hands rub out the knots in his tired muscles. Ezio is always there as a source of wisdom and guidance. It’s so rewarding, unlike the harsh treatment Altair gives him. Why does the Syrian act so grumpy, anyway? You’d think someone beat him as a kid, the bartender mused. 

“You’re wondering why he’s so...irritable, _si?”_ Ezio rumbles softly. 

Desmond looks around, and since he sees no Altair he nods. “Yeah. What’s his deal? Even in the ANIMUS I can never really get into the why, just the what, y’know?” His voice sounds small and pitiful, because it hurts to be shunned - that’s what Altair does, after all - by his ancestor. Is it too much to ask that the Syrian might be a bit nicer to him? That the guy might actually give him some praise for once? 

Without a sound, the Italian joins his descendant on the floor, giving him a hug. The boy needs it after being so confused and upset by their mysterious relative. “Desmond,” Ezio sighs, “Altair sees everything very differently from you and I. We think of showing our emotions as a good thing. He has always been taught - and he told me this - that to show your feelings means that you are vulnerable.”

“And being vulnerable is inviting death?”

“Or worse, _si._ He is not easy to get along with, _amico mio._ But if you try to understand him it gets easier.”

Desmond sits there in silence for a moment, mulling it all over. One question refuses to be answered however. 

“Ezio...why does he not trust us? He understands that we wouldn’t hurt him, right?”

The Italian shakes his head. How can he answer this properly? Keeping a balance between not violating the Syrian’s trust and being a true mentor to his young descendant puts such a strain on him sometimes. 

_“I’ve never been taught how to trust people.”_ A deep, smooth baritone voice murmurs from above. Ezio and Desmond immediately recognize both the voice and the Arabic it is spoken in. The American looks up at the figure above him, the white hoodie and the dark blue jeans. 

“You need to learn how to trust people?”

Altair nods, mouth thin with the tangible tension such a situation instills in him. Talks about feelings! But Desmond has a right to know; Altair admits to himself that he’s been difficult to be around lately. So he braces himself for more questioning. And right on cue, it comes.

“Why did you never learn?” 

_“It wasn’t needed. Al Mualim pushed me from the start; I had to be better, faster, smarter, stronger. Trust me when I tell you that that leaves little room for learning to be open with people. Only a few people have earned my trust, and that was only after Al Mualim’s death.”_

The drone of the air conditioning becomes the only sound in the room after that. All three assassins sit in silence, deep in their respective thoughts. Neither Ezio or Altair react as Desmond stands and climbs up to join his Syrian ancestor on the high ceiling beam. Altair’s acute senses are all trained on the American, though; he’s been an assassin too long to let that habit go. But he takes a Leap of Faith for the boy, because if Desmond could hurt him, he would have long before this. 

Tentative, Desmond looks at the hardened killer beside him. He has the nagging feeling that this too is a test - one of the numerous, rigorous examinations the Syrian puts people who try to get close to him through. And the former bartender reaches out a hand slowly to touch his ancestor’s shoulder. It feels strangely deep and satisfying to do something this simple. Something that most people do as a normal, friendly gesture. 

Below them, Ezio grins broadly. 

_The great Eagle of Masyaf hates to land, but sometimes he makes an exception..._


	2. Speculations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Desmond thinks. Basically a chapter to give some backstory :)

Desmond whoops with laughter, scaling the wall with an easy bound and leaving behind the cursing, furious Shawn. The former bartender wastes no time in getting out of there, though. He knows well not to linger when the Brit is pissed off. That never works out well in the end, and he doesn’t want a fight today. Not after the strange gentle encounter with Altair earlier. The Syrian trusted him for that one quiet moment, and Desmond wants more of that trusting later. But for now he needs to get out of here and takes the best route he can find - up the side of a bakery and across the rooftops. 

“I’ll get you for that, you bloody wanker!” Shawn screams.

Desmond smirks as he hears the irate historian, ignoring the shocked mutters of some passersby as he races across the roofs. The air is a perfect, warm temperature that brings a contented grin to the American’s face. He doesn’t have anything to worry about today. That’s a great feeling when most of your life involves killing people and avoiding being killed by other people. 

A quick glance down tells Desmond that he’s gone far enough. Folding his legs into a pretzel shape, he plops down on top of Lou’s Bakery and pulls a battered Big Buford out of his hoodie pocket. _What a shame for Shawn. He lost his yummy, juicy burger,_ Desmond gloats to himself. Unwrapping his prize the former bartender digs in as the sun slowly sinks toward the horizon. 

Chewing contentedly, Desmond lets his mind wander to the strange and amusing memory of how exactly his ancestors were transported to the 21st century. It had all began on one particularly unfortunate day during the oppressive heat of the Italian summer.

_The needle slid out of Desmond’s arm for what was surely the millionth time that month and the ex-bartender sat up, stretching his sore limbs. He saw immediately that something had gone wrong. Shawn and Rebecca weren’t at their usual stations. Lucy wasn’t anywhere to be seen either, and she was no slacker when it came to assassin business. So Desmond heaved himself out of Baby with no small amount of effort._

_Being in the Animus all day was not a walk in the park, no matter how much Shawn teased him._

_A hand clamped down suddenly over Desmond’s mouth. The startled novice Assassin struggled to throw off his assailant, but was slammed hard to the ground. He had the fleeting thought that he was probably gonna have some very bad bruises tomorrow, then realized that his chances of seeing tomorrow were steadily dropping like a big fat stone. So Desmond attempted to drive his elbow into his attacker’s stomach._

_Above him, a snarl in Arabic told him that he’d been successful in harming the person holding him down. Why had they not let him go yet? Any normal person..._

_Wait. ARABIC?_

_Desmond panicked. He recognized that voice. And if he was right, no matter how fucking impossible his theory was, it was imperative to get out of this situation and to the middle of the nearest body of water as fast as his legs could carry him._

_A cold, sharp blade pressed forcefully against his throat, making it impossible for Desmond to put that plan into action. Damn! He tried to keep himself from swallowing or moving so as to not get killed._

_“Who are you? Where am I? What is this place?” Yup. It’s Altair all right. The deep baritone rumbles are so familiar to the ex-bartender by now. But how to get Altair to calm down? The Levantine assassin is highly strung and volatile. So Desmond tried the only tactic he knew; sweet talking._

_“Listen to me, Altair,” he began, wincing slightly at the hiss of anger from above. “I will try to explain this to you, but please calm down. We’re all assassins here, man.”_

_The pressure on Desmond’s throat lifted slightly. Altair was willing to talk, then. Taking this as a good sign, Desmond turned his head a little to look up at his ancestor. Cold golden eyes glared back at him and Altair’s face was twisted into a terrifying snarl. Better make this as quick as possible, then. “Well, my name’s Desmond. I’m your descendant, and this is the 21st century. 2012. I don’t know how you got here, but the assassins here are in trouble. Abstergo - the Templars - are kicking our asses big time.”_

_It was immediately clear that Altair was still stuck on ‘21st century’ and ‘I’m your descendant’. The Syrian swore violently and punched the ground in his fury. Not that it did any good to right this odd situation, but whatever. Desmond preferred the ground getting hit instead of him._

_Growling with what had to be monstrous rage, Altair turned his gaze back to Desmond. “Well, boy? How am I supposed to get back home?”_

_“I don’t know! I’m sorry, Altair, but I really don’t know.” though Altair was clearly not pleased by his answer, Desmond could tell that the assassin wouldn’t kill him. Not as long as he needed more knowledge about this new and frightening time._

_A loud crash startled both of them. Turning to Shawn’s desk Desmond gaped at the sight of an ornately dressed and clearly shocked assassin laying there. Ezio stared in amazement at the hideout around him, seeming much more relaxed than Altair. Thank goodness for small mercies, then._

Desmond grins at the memory. Oh, it had been quite hilarious to see Altair completely flip out when Ezio recognized him as well. 

_“DOES EVERYONE HERE KNOW MY NAME?!?!?!”_ the Syrian had roared. 

“Yes...” Desmond and Ezio had replied in sync. 

Desmond wonders if Altair will trust him even more after that episode today. The very possibility makes his heart beat faster with excitement. The Syrian has such an odd effect on him that Desmond can’t help but admit that he’s...attracted to the other man. Damn, that would be a spectacularly bad idea. Altair is thoroughly straight, though sometimes Desmond has gotten the feeling that Malik was a little more than a good friend to his ancestor. But no matter: they were related, and that most definitely made things weird. 

_Doesn’t mean I can’t dream, though,_ Desmond thinks, smirking as his finishes his burger. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh Gods! This is so spectacularly late...I'm sorry xD Epic fail on my part.

**Author's Note:**

> Please do me a favor and tell me what you think of this, guys. It was originally supposed to be a oneshot on ff.net, but people have been asking me to continue it, so...help?


End file.
